Salt
by Laura Schiller
Summary: Tag to "Deep Breath". "That's not the question, Clara. The question is, what's bothering you and how can I help?" ... "Well, then. You can start by not leaving me behind again, I suppose."


Salt

By Laura Schiller

Based on: Doctor Who

Copyright: BBC

The hug did not make everything all right.

Clara pretended not to notice the new Doctor reaching for her hand, then pretending he hadn't, and edging away from her to get as far apart as the sidewalk permitted. They walked through the busy, gray streets of Glasgow in silence, only stopping for Clara to buy chips. She wondered if they always tasted like salted cardboard in Scotland, or if it was just the lump in her throat.

"All right," said the Doctor, rolling his eyes. "What?"

"Nothing."

"Ye never go this long without talking. _What?_"

"What's that supposed to mean?" she blustered. Who did he think she was, one of those annoying girls who couldn't go a minute without hearing their high-pitched voices? God, she did have a high-pitched voice. And was her unhappiness that easy to read, even by what had to be the most tactless man in the universe? It wasn't strictly his fault she was unhappy. Well, sort of. But hadn't they had enough emotional intensity just now? What happened to a relaxing end of the day?

Seeing her face, the Doctor sighed in a way that made him even older. "That's no' the question, Clara. The question is, what's bothering you and how can I help?"

_You saved my life, you've done more than enough, _would be the kindest thing to say. The former nanny in her wanted to make up for the hurt she had caused (_"Please don't change!" …. "You look at me and you don't see me. Just … see me.")_ by treating her new old friend with especial care and respect.

But those gray attack eyebrows of his were bristling with stubbornness. If she didn't give in now, he would keep pushing until she did.

She tugged uncomfortably on her lace collar, then cursed herself for leaving chip-greased fingerprints on it. "Well then," she said, as bright and brittle as icicles. "You could start by not leaving me behind again, I suppose."

That stopped the Doctor in his tracks. He stared down at the chip in his hand as if it had turned sonic, then slowly turned to focus wide blue eyes on Clara. An ocean of penitence was in those eyes, but all he had to say was a toneless, "Oh."

"I'm not the egomaniac you seem to think I am, Doctor. God knows I _wanted_ to stay with you in Christmas, but we both knew my family was waiting. All you had to do was remind me. Not manipulate me – especially not twice!"

The Doctor sped up, as if to outpace his conscience, which made Clara short of breath and even angrier. He was still too bloody tall.

"And when you changed – yes, I admit it, I'll miss the bow tie and the smile, but did you really think I was stupid enough to reject you for looking older?" Vastra's remembered accusations burned white-hot like Half Face's torch. "You _forgot_ us, Doctor – not only me, but the Paternoster Gang, and you've known them for centuries! You ran away from us in the middle of the night, you left me to be almost killed by those robots, and _then _you disappeared again as soon as you'd stopped them. Strax gave me a medical exam. He assumed we'd be _serving_ together, the three of them and me – like you were - never - coming - back!"

Damn it, she was shedding tears into her chips. If they'd been too salty before, they'd be inedible now. In fact, she wondered if she'd ever enjoy the things again.

She remembered the wheeze-groan of the TARDIS vanishing behind her, the hot turkey pan weighing her down, the soggy chill of winter through her cardigan, and the utter wrongness of being disappointed to see her own building. What a desolate gray box it had looked that day, with all her loved ones waiting for her inside, only because one of them was missing. _I saw him standing there, and he looked so beautiful … I wanted nothing to change, ever again. _

_Oh, Gran, how did you do it? Daddy, how did you survive?_

"Clara … och, Clara, impossible girl, don't you know Strax better by now than to believe everything he says?"

A laugh broke through her tears despite herself. The Doctor had a point. His gruff Scottish voice, despite the joke, was gentler than she had ever heard it, and when she looked up, his blue eyes were shining.

The other Doctor, at this point, would have swept her up in one of his magnificent hugs. From this Doctor, however, that was the last thing she would have wanted. It would only have made her cry more, thinking of opportunities given up for good (_"I'm not your boyfriend … I never said it was your mistake._) This Doctor kept a gentlemanly distance, and she was grateful beyond words.

"I'm sorry about Trenzalore. He … _I _shouldn't have tricked you. I promised myself I'd never do that again."

"Oh?" She was well on her way to forgiving him, but while they were at it, she might as well pick every bone available on the carcass of the day, just to get it over with. She folded her arms, chip cone and all, and tilted up her head for a pointed stare. "And the basement at Mancini's? What was that?"

"A tactical decision."

"How was throwing me to the wolves a tactical decision? Explain it to me, please, so my tiny human brain can understand."

"I told you. You were too slow."

"I was wearing a corset!"

"Well, I didna pick your wardrobe."

"I could've been killed!"

"But you weren't."

"_So?_" She threw up her hands, forgetting the cone she held and scattering chips all over the sidewalk. The Doctor jumped back, then brushed one off his new black jacket with fastidious care.

"So," he said, maddeningly calm. "Ye proved me right."

Her glare faded to confusion. "About what?"

"Ye outwitted the Cyberplanner, jumped into my timestream, and spent several years supervising Angie Maitland. I had faith that if anyone could survive an encounter with those robots, it would be you – and, as always, I was right."

_Faith?_

If anything could have disarmed Clara at such a moment, it would have been this. She knew she had been lacking in faith herself since the regeneration, assuming that the Doctor had too little faith in her. It hadn't occurred to her that the opposite might be true.

"I may nae know much about meself yet, but I do know I'm nae sentimental. And yet … Clara, earlier just now, I outright _begged _ye to stay with me. I let ye squeeze my bones halfway to jelly." He winced in comical dismay. "That, er … that _should_ give ye a clue as to where ye stand in my opinion."

When he put it that way, it did seem rather obvious. She felt a pleased little smile stealing over her face, to match the wistful one on his.

"I disappeared after Mancini's to give ye time to think. The question is … what's your decision?"

This time, Clara didn't hesitate. "Take me home."

The light in his eyes cracked like a falling lamp.

"For Christmas dinner, genius." She grinned and punched him on the shoulder. "Drop me off, then pick me up at our usual Wednesday. And _no _materializing on the carpet, please. I won't have the TARDIS tracking in nineteenth-century straw."

His answering grin was positively radiant.

"Hmph," he growled. "Bossy as ever."

"Says the man who shouted at the Old God of Akhaten."

"D'ye ken," he waved a chip at her between meditative bites, "I do believe I've found this body's favorite food. I'll have to watch my waistline."

Clara fished one out of the crumpled remains of her own bag and ate it in one bite. It was warm, crispy, and salty enough to make her tongue buzz.

"No accounting for taste," she said out loud.

What she thought was, _me too._


End file.
